


Listless Numbers of Books

by UncomfortablyYours (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley has too many plants, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, I regret absolutely nothing yet everything, I'll probably add several dozen more tags, M/M, Possessive Crowley, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/UncomfortablyYours
Summary: What do the apocalypse-that-wasn't, Heaven, and Hell have in common?If you'd ask me, I'd say nothing. And you'd be right. Because Hell doesn't have aziraphale and Crowley isn't pleased. To Azira, he'd say they have all had Crowley. (Which wouldn't be a lie).This is a simple story, with not very simple words to explain the Ineffable plan after the apocalypse.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you tommybranart for reading all of this 
> 
> He's my boy so please go sub to him :)

June 14, 2020 (about a year since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t)

_ Anthony J. Crowley _ was the name printed on the letters hanging from the overstuffed mailbox, long left unchecked in the past year. Between handling the apocalypse and just not being home, the mail had been a neglected task that humans tended to worry about. They didn’t want one another to read their business. Crowley lost his want to care about such simplistic things, far busier with demonic business. 

He hardly had time to care about his plants, but they knew better than to attempt wilting and browning. They didn’t know when their beloved and feared master would return with the spray bottle. It was a fond sense of being afraid, but the life knew better than to try and be kind. Crowley didn’t do four letter words like that. So they remained upright, strong stems and full blooms with the spring air. Bees had wormed in through a small window crack, so they were pollinated from the seeds to the tips of their petals. The little yellow buggers didn’t come back very much since it was so cold in the slate colored housing. Metal and polished rock mingled with the greenery, the only color in the whole place. It was the aesthetic Crowley gave off, but seemed far too.. orderly for a demon who loved causing trouble. 

Then again, he hardly thought to show to such a place. It was just a place on Earth he could go when he needed time to heal. Wasn’t that often obviously. It was rare to hear the occasional footsteps that wandered the hall, so the plants thought nothing of the foot falls that neared the mailbox. The white polymer metal banged harsh with a flip up and the green leaves  _ knew _ that it wasn’t the mailman that was oh so gentle in trying to stack the letters in. 

And they were right. A head of long ginger hair was tied into a hard braid like the handle of his whip personality, shapely framed sunglasses circling his eyes as they flickered across junk mail, the occasional bill payment received letter, some suggestions for credit cards, and at the very bottom - a letter from the Master of Hell himself. Huh. Probably just something for stopping the apocalypse. Maybe a revoking of his miracling rights. Who knows. 

He dug for his key in his skinny jeans, pulling the wretched pink and white thing from his pocket. The landlord he bought this from must have thought it funny to drop the key in a can of paint. He was far too lazy to care, since it still worked in the lock. Door unlocked, he shoved it open with his hip and the plants began to quiver - not in fear. No, not this time. But excitement. They knew one day he would return, and he did! Crowley had returned to the little abode with stacks of letters, heavy shoulders, and a tired sigh. He came in and threw himself into the rolling red chair behind his desk, carting himself around to the plant hallway with paper in tow. 

“Hm.. good morning my children. Apologies for being so disconcerted with you lot. I had far more important things to be doing with Angel and the rest of Them.” He miracled his spray bottle, dowsing them with the little misty droplets. Pristine and green as ever, the plants leaned in and opened themselves up to show their wonderfulness to their master. Crowley looked pleased with them too, a rare sight. Perhaps being with Aziraphale had softened his old bones more than usual. They couldn’t question it though, since they lacked incredible thought process. The fact they could shake consciously was unique in itself. 

“I bet you didn’t know about the possible apocalypse. It is out of your range of thought after all.” He mused, slicing open the letter from his boss while making circles in the rolly chair. Part of the ripped envelope was stuck to his claw, and he shook his hand until it went flying somewhere to then finally drag the piece of paper into sight. It read as follows: 

_ Crowley -- _

__ __ _ What in bloody hell are you thinking? You think that teaming with an angel is a grand idea? Good riddens with you. You’re uninvited to hell. HR will miss you.  _

In demon terms, that means get the hell out. They’ll miss his sins but he can’t work with an angel. He’d probably be able to come back if he dropped Aziraphale from his brain, but that’s fucking possible at this point. The be damned angel had him wrapped around his little chubby fingers. They had survived an apocalypse together, that really strengthens the bonds of people. He wasn’t excluded from this feeling as much as he wished he was sometimes. The fallen angel was only ever exempt from church events and the occasional baptism. Kinda glad for those, since he’s met so many people and had so many kids. Didn’t have to buy all those gifts. 

Tossing the letter aside he released a sigh and gave a small blooming cactus a spritz. “Kicked out of hell. Never thought the day would come. Guess I’m a purgatory wanderer like the rest of them bloody spirits.” Crowley threw himself up from the chair and stuffed a hand in his pocket. He was clearly not caring on the outside, but inside he was incredibly hurt. Sure he wasn’t the worst demon ever, but he wasn’t a saint by any means. Just because he stopped Armageddon doesn’t mean he can’t keep doing sinful things. His might just be… smaller scale. 

Okay maybe it’s not as impressive. But still! He was a bad guy, a demon of - once - the highest order. 

“I bet Gabriel will fuckin’ love to hear that I’ve been dethroned. Ugh.” The decision to have a scotch on the rocks came to mind, so it was then followed through with using the snap of his fingers. Snake lips touched the rim of the glass and he took a hard swallow of the burning liquid. “Cocky cunt.” No angel could be any more disgusting to him than Gabriel was. He really gave his Angel props for being able to keep from beating the archangel over the head with a frying pan. He raised his arm again and slugged back the rest of his drink, tongue flicking out to catch a drop from his upper lip. 

“I bet you lot,” speaking to the plants again, “will love having me around.” Sarcasm chocolate-coated every word. “Someone to make sure you aren’t slacking like lazy guards in a school at night.” He left the plant room and went to the kitchenette, glass getting washed out in the sink for .2 of a second before being thrown in the drying rack.  _ What in Satan’s name am I supposed to do now? I’m a fucking demon who’s locked outta hell. A laughing stock.  _ He could almost hear Hastur and Lastur laughing at him now, full belly-wrecking laughs too. Disgusting. They never did have anything better to do than give him tasks. 

Delivering the antichrist had been the worst of them. 

Hell, he almost rammed the front end of a truck getting the instructions for handling the thing. It was far too difficult for their pea brains and they threw it at him because HR thought his dumb taking down of the cell towers was genius. It was for the century but that was beside the point. Anthony leaned his arms on the counter and gazed to the streets between sparkles of glass and sunlight. He felt bile on his tongue from acid reflux and accused the fact it was nice out today. When that four letter word applied, things usually were bad for him. 

Ringing interrupted the inner monologue he was writing, and his yellow slit eyes hardly had a chance to glare before he heard it a second time. It wasn’t his phone, no. It was from the front room, which he stomped unhappily towards. Awaiting there for him? 

The nasty twat himself - Hastur. 

“Hail Sata-” 

“Ah piss off, Hag.” Dark black eyes widened when his eyebrows raised. “Not up for dealing with your shit.” 

“And I thought you’d be up to cause sinful trouble. Bat bit your tongue?” His laughter was a hellish bark, and it took lots of strength for Crowley to keep his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans. The black denim didn’t hide his balled up fists very well though. 

“No, it didn’t. I got kicked out, cheeky bastard. So you know where you can stick you hails.” He was getting another drink, a coke and rum the old fashioned way - unmiracled. Ice cubes clinked against diamond cut glass as Hastur laid himself across the leather armchair that graced the left side of a coffee table. 

“Kicked out?” There was a twinge of hidden genuine surprise in the words, but soon it was replaced by a grin more wicked than maybe even the Devil himself. “Cause of your angelic lover boy.” 

“He’s not my lover. He hardly even removes his jacket around me, dimwit.” 

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“Don’t feign innocence here, bitch.” 

Hastur snorted. “Didn’t even cross my mind.” 

“Sure.” 

Crowley flopped his body hard into the rolling chair again and shoved himself across the floor to the coffee table. He was a good 10 feet from the other demon, but it felt like it should be further. 

“Well regardless, you don’t got the Upstairs watching your every move now huh? And you still get to live forever, just as one of those ghostie little fuckers.” He snapped his fingers and a flask of gunmetal was in palm. A few quick swigs were taken. Who knew what was in that thing. The ideas Crowley came up with in those two seconds were probably accurate, but disturbing. 

“Yeah, but what the fuck am I supposed to do for eternity? Sit around and get fat?” 

“Well. No, I guess not.” He scratched his head and threw his shoulders in a shrug. “You’re smart, HR knew that and we all did. You’ll find something. But if you do want to try and get in their good books again, you can come with Ligur and I. Go collect some souls.” Leather groaned soft when Hastur stood up. 

“I’d rather not interrupt you two on your little date. Go on your own.” He shooed the lesser, who rolled his eyes in return. 

“It’s not a date, you can’t trust another demon let alone date.” 

“Call it enemies with benefits. Now get out.”

Hastur was gone in a blink, the faint smell of burned fabric, wood, and candles left in his wake. Crowley summoned a can of febreeze and sprayed it all over the furniture. 

Hastur was acting like he knew Crowley - like he gave two shits about how he felt or what happened to him. Any demon would only care out of wondering what would happen to them if they wore those shoes instead. He had most certainly hoped to hear that Crowley would get his bones crunched into dust and be left as a ghost of a demon. Maybe ordered to haunt some people, push books off shelves. But he was far more dignified than that! In all actuality, he might be saved from that fate because he kept up with the times and got sinful souls because he knew that phones were important. 

Urgh. Whatever, his head hurt thinking about that bullshit. 

He swiveled around in the chair to glare at the sun in the sky, checking his watch. Another 2 hours til it would fade from the sky. There wasn’t going to be much to do in that time, since after dark was the best time to meet Aziraphale. His book shop tended to close after the sun was down and when it came up because that angel just couldn’t keep himself busy during the night hours. Unless he had a new first addition to read, then he wouldn’t be seen outside business hours for several weeks. 

Too pure for him. He needed freedom in his veins, the smell of fear and blood and sweat and sexual prowless. Imagining it made it feel closer, within grasp -

Causing some havoc  _ did _ sound right in this moment, adrenaline rush sometimes just what he needs to get his mind back in his head. But what could he do? He couldn’t be half ass about it. And would it be worth it to try and get back of the decent books of hell? The worst that could happen was he doesn’t have a good time. Besides, it was a weekend… tomorrow was Sunday, and most wouldn’t have mass if he were to… “Cut the power. London is too much hassle and bussle anyway. Let’s kill the lights.” Besides, sex doesn’t sleep in the dark. Less mass attendance meant they might be recovering from a good fucking. It made Crowley excited to be able to get back in the swing of things. Like a kid on Christmas racing downstairs, he gathers up a jacket and dons it over his black turtleneck. He’d have to pass on to Hastur that he doesn’t like not being in the spotlight, sin just much too close to his cold, blackened heart. That’s when Angel gives him the most attention too, when he was starting mischief. 

The Bently he held so dear roared to life the closer he got, door swinging open and climbing in the driver’s seat. He adjusted the headlights, mirror that hung down, and his butt in the back of the chair. “Next stop, London’s central power supply.” Crowley applied a dash of chapstick and his forked tongue excitedly flickered out. He hardly cared as he stepped on the gas and skidded to 60 in a 30. 

Oh yes, it was a dangerous night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Same day, June 14th

Crowley was parked right outside the power plant as one by one he miracles the power plant apart, sparks flying and fires popping up from flammable items that were littered across the floors. People never did pick up after themselves properly when it wasn’t part of their job, huh? He was just laughing quietly, a fanged grin as these small things helped just make this plan go all the better. He unwrapped the burger he had bought himself before this chaos as part of his celebration, taking a bite of the greasy (but albeit delicious) mess. It was rare and far between that Crowley indulged himself in human delicacies like Azira, but something different and edible was always a good reward for hard work. 

He dunked a fry into a cheese sauce and sighed in content, chewing, chewing, and swallowing as the power plant was forced into shutting down and killing all source of function to London.  _ Satan must be missing me already. He just had to give me some time, and here I am - terrorizing people. _ His next order of business would be to take a trip around the city and see what people were doing. Maybe get in touch with an informant and see what was going on around the country. He hardly went any further than Tadfield, occasionally liverpool, but he liked London the most since he had so many people to annoy here. 

His draft beer washed down the food he ate, the feeling of his belly being full and slightly bloated not something he hated. It was different, yes, since he didn’t need to eat, but welcomed. Crowley leaned the seat of his Bently back just a little to drift his eyes shut, let himself absorb the food. Nearly decided to take a power nap when his window was knocked against. Fucking fuck. Yellow eyes open behind dark sunglasses and he growls. Gabriel in his stupid grey suit and stupid looking face was standing outside his window. 

He rolled it down just enough to have the angel see his eyes. “What do you want? Can’t a guy just nap in his car?” Crowley’s words were snapped, especially when there was a sly smile sliding onto Gabriel’s lips. He had to know. That was the face of a man who knew what had been sent to Crowley.

“Oh, yes, yes of course. But you’re not a man, Crowley. Though I guess you aren’t a demon anymore, hm?” He had a proud look similar to the phrase ‘I have won’, and the demon did not hesitate to throw his door open into Gabriel. It knocked the wind from his chest and shoved him away from the car, the ginger stepping out onto the sidewalk. He had more than his fair share of choice words for this plucked dove angel. 

“Shut your bloody windpipe, comb over.” He groveled, tiger teeth bared as a hand dug into the door. He held it like that to avoid causing a scene in front of another scene. “What are you gonna do about it? Rejoyce? Maybe, go for a drink - oh wait, you don’t do that do you?” Crowley viewed Gabriel adjusted his ruffled appearence, rolling his neck to give it a sharp crack. The sound was enough to cause the archangel a slight wince, but he otherwise kept a strong front. 

“I enjoy the occasional spirit, Crawley. Don’t make me out to be that prudent.” Gabriel puffed out his chest in vain, attempting to seem as sinful as an angel could get (within bounds). 

“Why lie about what is clearly true?” He flicked Gabe in the nose, who reared a hand up and covered the appendage. “I’ve got better things to be doing than trying to guess who snitched to you about my snail mail.” Crowley decided to climb back in his car and slammed his door, rolling the window back up as it belonged. “Good bye and fuck you.” He could almost hear the gasp of disdain, but threw it off his shoulder. He would go elsewhere to enjoy his meal in peace. 

\----------------------------------/

Crowley had found a ‘lovers leap’ of sorts in his travels of the South Downs, taking the chance to overlook some nature for once in his life. He enjoyed potted plants, obviously, but he never fancied a large yard or field of wild grasses. It just didn’t suit his fancy. They were too wild to be tamed where they grow, so he just let them grow. 

He propped his feet up on the dashboard, his Bently sighing under the nice heat coming from the sun above. It was far too warm for the car, but Crowley thrived. Hell was hot and he was cold blooded, snake venom on his tongue. The radio was clicked on with the move of his fingers and he leaned the seat back to relax fully. He was full from that grease ball lunch that he was so fond, crumbs of cheese curds and fries in his cup holder. He’d need a shop-vac for that, but he gave no fucks right now. The demon was just sunning himself, that’s all that mattered to him. Crowley could almost take a nap, the welcomed heat drifting a wisp of sleep over him. So warm… So safe….

There was suddenly a strong banging on the window and his eyes flashed open, startled awake and causing the horn to honk in his flailing. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked where the tapping came from, narrowing his eyes at the cop he saw there with his blinding flashlight. At some point while Crowley slept, the sun had decided it was okay to sink and he was now shivering out of his skin. The sun… he shifted back down into his seat as he should sit, sniffling hard. Might as well have icicles hanging from his nose...

“Sir, can you roll down your window?” He was so muffled by the glass that Crowley could almost make the excuse of not hearing him, but had learned from Azira that he should try getting along with the bobbies, so he rolled the window down and yawned wide mouthed for a moment. “Hi, you have to leave - it’s past the park hours.” The man and Crowley shared a look before the window was rolled up, and the engine started. Whatever. At least he didn’t get shot. 

Waiting for the officer to get in the car, Crowley ripped from the parking spot and threw it into drive, speeding like the calm madman he was. He wasn’t quite yet wanting to go to his flat, knowing the grey metal wasn’t very homey during the night. He didn’t know where he would go though, since the time was so late. He did know that he needed to turn the heat on. Buttons mashed, the heat blasted from the vents and rushed his skin. Better. He furrowed his brows as he turned mindless corners, hardly paid attention to signs, and eventually looked to where he was. 

This…

This was familiar. 

A block later, Crowley spotted the glowing library of books that was Aziraphale’s beloved bookshop. Of course. That’s why it was familiar. He pulled up next to the double yellow lines and watched them fade away, shifting into park. This seemed as good a place as any to be right now. Especially since he hasn’t seen Aziraphale for a long time. Not since everything was under control. Who knew how the angel has been?

He climbed from the Bently and up the curb, letting the door swing shut behind him. His headlights went out with a snap and he paused before the bookshop. Lights dimmed, candles of LED kind were flickering fauxly in the windows. Aesthetic purposes, clearly. The caramel colored wood could almost be mistaken for being edible and Crowley licked his lips. A. Z. Fell kept his store looking so polished, it made the demon give the smallest of smiles. Marching towards the steps he then hiked up, the door was hip-checked open and he was greeted with the smells of candles - wintergreen, spruce, peppermint - melting under wick flames. It was warming, and gave off an intellectual vibe that has always suited the ethereal being. 

“Angel?” He waltzed across the floor, his hands tucked into pockets. Keys jingled under fingertips and shoes slapped leather to the floorboards. There was no response from even the back room where the crumbling first editions were usually restored. He peered up the steps to the flat above the shop. “Aziraphale?” Crowley took the hand railing and ascended the stairs, the third ritually creaking under his weight. Who knew how many times he’s been up these stairs? Far too many times to keep count at this point. They were homey to him as he walked to the landing and peeked up. There was no one in the halls and most of the doors were closed except for Azira’s bedroom. He’d start there with his search. 

He reached the top step and moved toward the bedroom, peering around the corner into the darkness. A miniscule candle flame peaked on the desk with a desert rose scent drifting the air conditioning channels. The smoke of sandalwood incense had long been left to linger, clustered near the shelving unit it sat on. The ashes left had yet to be swept away which meant Aziraphale had forgotten about it. And yet more, the bed was still made and hadn’t been moved for the evening so he wasn’t sleeping. Unless he was on the living room couch. 

Realization struck him. He must be with Gabriel. Of course. He had been worri- 

No. No. He doesn’t do worried. 

He was slightly concerned for someone who had his hat. Yes. That’s right. And Aziraphale did have his hat - an old fedora from the days of Nazi catching. He risked his body going into that church, hot-footing like it was the fifties in a sock hop. Yeesh. Never doing that again. 

He left the bedroom and moved for the kitchen, examining the things in his fridge. Azira had so many kinds of sushi and supplies for sushi… Was in an unhealthy obsession? Technically no, because the Japanese have a very healthy diet, but perhaps the angel indulged too much. At least the fridge wasn’t sitting empty. Crowley took a glass bottle of coffee and twisted the top off, sniffling the vanilla mix before sipping it as he scavenged the house. He had one miracled in place of the one he had taken, and another in hand for when he found his angel. 

Crowley ducked into the living room and scanned, finding nothing but hearing the smallest bit of music coming from somewhere. It was hardly heard by the human ear, but he used the radar dishes on his head and followed the sound. It was coming from a wall, where the paper was a bit peeled away and exposed a hole. It was hidden if one didn’t look for it, and it could be mistaken for something needing repair if they didn’t peer close. He dug his finger in and pulled the door open wide, seam of the paper exposing itself. “A hidden compartment… Angel you do surprise me every day.” He smirked and ascended to the attic, the steps well cared for and not making a noise. The music was growing louder, and he looked around the corner to see Aziraphale fixing up the walls of the attic. He had Newt helping him, Anathema seated nearby a CD player. They were jamming to some Queen, and Anathema was talking about the shift of the ley lines. They had gone back and forth since the discovery of the antichrist and that entire event, so she was frustrated at how hard it was to find exactly where the one in Tadfield crossed. She wanted to know before the next full moon:

“... because I want to have a nice little self care gathering, where I can just bask in the moon with the power of the ley lines washing over me.” She was having her little witchy moments. 

Crowley sauntered on up the last step with a loud footstep and got their attention - especially Aziraphale, whos’ heart might have stopped for a moment. “Sup, Angel. Anathema, Newt.” He drew out the sounds of their names like he usually did, leaning his hip on the jetty of the wall. “Nice hiding place love, where’d you find the time to make 


End file.
